Dragma's Keep (Valdaar's Fist, Book 1)

By Vance Pumphrey

Valdaar’s Fist. Forged by mortals. Enchanted by Drow. Wielded by a god. Lost by man. Or was it?

A band of unlikely adventurers embark upon an epic quest in this first book in a four-part series, battling minotaurs, demons, orcs, and wraiths—and occasionally themselves.

Surely they must prevail...because the very balance of power in the land requires it.

In Dragma’s Keep, Vance Pumphrey weaves a lyrical and magical tapestry that sets the stage and whets the appetite for the next adventurous fantasies that comprise his Valdaar’s Fist series.

Vance Pumphrey traces the evolution of his high fantasy novels from his Nuclear Engineering career in the U.S. Navy—not an obvious leap. He started playing Dungeons and Dragons in the Navy, though, and the inspiration for Dragma’s Keep was born.

Dragma’s Keep is the first in the Valdaar’s Fist quartet. A second series follows soon.

Retired from the Navy, Pumphrey lives in Seattle with his wife of thirty-plus years.

To find out when the next Valdaar’s Fist book will be released, visit Vance's website.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Vance Pumphrey
• Release date: Jun 22, 2015
• ISBN: 9780988740549

Vance Pumphrey

Vance Pumphrey traces the evolution of his high fantasy novels from his Nuclear Engineering career in the U.S. Navy—not an obvious leap. He started playing Dungeons and Dragons while in the Navy, though, and the inspiration for Dragma’s Keep was born.Dragma’s Keep is the first book in the Valdaar’s Fist quartet. A second book in the series follows soon.Retired from the Navy, Vance lives in Seattle with his wife of thirty-plus years.To find out when the next Valdaar’s Fist book will be released, check out VancePumphrey.com.

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About the Author

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Valdaar’s Fist

What has Gone Before

FORGED BY MORTALS. … Enchanted by Drow. … Wielded by a God. … Lost by man…

Or was it?

The legend of Valdaar’s Fist survived for many years even after it was reported destroyed with the god Valdaar in ages long since passed. But eventually even the legends were forgotten. However, since the purported reappearance of this ancient foe of chaos and good, many a sorcerer and high priest have been found poring over ancient tomes and moldy manuscripts.

Though it has been several millennia since the powerful sword last wielded its terrible might, the legends and stories should not have been forgotten. For during the time of its reign it was common knowledge that the blade, and the life force within, could not be destroyed. Now much time has been wasted and many lives lost. Valdaar’s Fist is once again in position to wreak its evil.

Most accounts of the sword’s power and might are forever lost, but a few have surfaced—enough to instill fear in the hearts of even the most fearless of men.

The blade was commissioned to be forged by Praxaar in an age when he was not yet a great god. A council of the highest of all the Dwarf clans in the land convened to determine which metals were to be used. Much arguing ensued, until Praxaar stepped in and appointed one master metalsmith from each clan to enter the mines of Tressgaard and forge the blade from the strongest metals known to men or gods. It was a time when the lore of metal was at its peak—indeed a time when artifacts and Vorpal weapons were abundant. A lore now mostly forgotten by mortals.

Several years passed before a suitable alloy was found. An alloy lighter by half than iron, as hard as the purest of diamonds and able to hold an edge better than even Mithryl. An alloy now known as Adamantine, the metal of the gods.

On the day the forging was completed, a full legion under the command of Valdaar (Praxaar’s twin brother) attacked the commission and wiped it out. The sword was stolen and all but one of the dwarves responsible for its creation were hunted down and killed. That lone dwarf escaped, going into hiding. He used the lore gleaned from their efforts only sparingly. It was thought that he carried to his unmarked grave the knowledge of how to make—and to unmake—the metal. But he, Forrin Shieldsmasher, lived a long, long life as dwarves sometimes do. And during that time he formed a secret sect that continued to work with the metal formula that only they knew. But that is another story for a different tale.

Valdaar turned the blade over to the Drow (dark) elves for its enchantment. In return for the most powerful sword known to man or the gods, Valdaar promised to deliver them from their self-inflicted exile beneath the mountains of Tressgaard, into a position to once again rule the destiny of the land.

Valdaar’s Fist, as it was now becoming known, made the descent into those depths, where it remained for almost a decade. What happened to the blade during those years is not recorded anywhere. However, the emergence of the sword is marked clearly in any text dating back that far.

While waiting on his sword, Valdaar was not idle. He assembled under his command the largest army ever known. Orcs, Half-Orcs, Goblins, Men, and even Drow Elves had united under his leadership.

Finally, one spring morning in the year Praxaar was crowned Lord of All the Land, Valdaar called together his vast army and was presented his new sword.

The sheath was of the purest Mithryl with a single large red ruby on its side—said to be the eye of the sword when sheathed—that was mounted just below the braided Mithryl tie string. The pommel, chipped from a single piece of pure obsidian, was wrapped in the same Mithryl braid as a grip and had an intricately carved skull affixed to the end, a skull fashioned from a huge black diamond almost as large as a fist. When drawn, the eyes of the skull emitted a deep blood red glow, and it is said that the horrid mouth moved when the sword chose to speak—an occurrence known to be seldom.

Valdaar signaled for and received silence. Such a hush spread over the gathered throng that even the birds in the trees stopped singing and the insects ceased buzzing. He raised the sheathed sword at arm’s length above his head. Slowly and with definite purpose, he withdrew the blade. An even deeper silence spread over the land for miles as the power of blade was unleashed.

When fully drawn, it writhed and seethed with black flames. Not glowing, the flames instead seemed to pull the light out of the air around the sword, giving the edges an indistinct appearance, making it hard to look at for any period of time. Through the flames, runes danced and glowed golden upon its blackened surface, shimmering as if seen through a haze.

The dark force grew until it engulfed Valdaar, and he seemed to physically grow with the power, until all in the army could see and hear him clearly. "I name you The Fist of Valdaar!" he said, his voice rising with each word until, at the end, he spoke clearly to even the farthest divisions of the army.

Here the ancient texts disagree. Some say the sword spoke next, others Valdaar. But all agree as to what was said: Make preparation for war. We march in a fortnight. By the time winter comes all of the Land will be ours! The last word echoed for several moments in the sudden silence that followed. Then a cheer erupted, one that within the space of a single heartbeat grew to deafening proportions.

By late fall, Praxaar and the tattered remains of his army were besieged within the walls of the once fair city of Urendale. They managed to hold out for several weeks, but the city was doomed to fall. Praxaar and the members of his High Council were secreted out under the cover of darkness and managed to escape. He vowed to one day return and avenge the deaths of those who sacrificed their lives to guarantee his passage.

Valdaar was crowned king with his brother’s crown and the dark ages settled upon the land.

The tales that emerged from that six-month war cast fear and doubt into hearts of even the gods. The Blade was known to speak several languages and was able to disguise itself at will. Worse yet, any servant of Chaos and Good that was so much as to be scratched by the sword disintegrated, leaving just a burnt patch where he or she once stood.

The texts get very indistinct as to which were the powers of the sword and which belonged to Valdaar, as little was known about either prior to the war. During the ensuing years, as many records as could be found concerning the blade were destroyed in an attempt to continue the confusion and to ensure there was no knowledge passed that could lead to the sword’s unmaking.

Through the power of Valdaar’s Fist, The Dark King, as he was now beginning to be known, grew in strength and stature. His council consisted of dark Lords of the Drow, several high priests and powerful sorcerers. He seemed to never age and his wisdom surpassed all. Thus his reign lasted for more than a hundred years without opposition.

But Praxaar’s vow also kept him young. He amassed his army in secret. Finally, however, fearing they would soon be discovered, he attacked. Once again the might of Valdaar’s Fist was called upon. It is said that without its support, Valdaar would have never lasted even a year, so vast was the army of Praxaar. But such was their combined lore that the battle dragged on for nearly a century. In the end, Valdaar was betrayed and defeated.

The great hall where Valdaar and the remnants of his Council made their final stand was littered with hundreds of dead and dying. When the blade in Praxaar’s hand, said to be fashioned from a piece of the sun (yet another story), pierced Valdaar’s heart, he sank slowly into a heap in a corner, his eyes still open, hatred spewing from them.

When they finally glazed over, his entire body seemed to collapse, leaving nothing more than his armor, helm, gauntlets, and, of course, the sword. The sword spoke then, its evil stare piercing into Praxaar’s eyes, holding him momentarily powerless. We are vanquished now. But, when the time is once again right—when a suitable vassal walks the land—I will return. Together we will rule all there is to rule, and even the gods will be at our mercy. With that, the sheath appeared around the sword and it fell silent.

Praxaar and his forces secreted the sword and other artifacts away, fearing his brother would find a way to make true on his promise. After a millennia or so, the worry subsided, and the good times that had settled into the hearts of his host pushed aside the fear of those last words. Praxaar began to believe the sword had indeed been merely boastful.

Now, almost two millennia after its reported demise, the blade has returned.

Chapter One

A Chance Encounter

SORDAAK GLARED AT THE OTHERS in the tavern. The stench of unwashed bodies and stale smoke only added coals to his mood.

Fools, Sordaak muttered under his breath as his gaze fell upon some of the locals at a nearby table who were losing badly in a game of chance to a man who was an obvious thief.

Then Sordaak chuckled as a glimmer of an idea began to work its way through the haze of ale that clouded his mind. Yes, maybe this will be just what I need to ease the boredom, he thought as he stroked the few scraggly hairs on his chin.

Sordaak mumbled the words to the spell quietly so that no one would hear and made the required arcane gestures within the folds of the voluminous robe that hid his slight frame.

As he felt the force of the spell build around him, the mage closed his eyes and forced his thoughts into the mind of the farmer across from the thief, who had his back to the caster. Sordaak sensed the confusion of the man, but he pushed that aside to insert his message.

You are being cheated, Sordaak projected. The farmer’s shoulders tensed and he glared around suddenly, looking for the source of the whisper. Failing to see anyone close enough, he turned back to the game.

That man across from you, Sordaak projected, watch his hands closely. The man looked right and left. Again seeing no one in the immediate vicinity, he shifted nervously in his chair. But now his eyes locked on the thief’s hands.

The opportunity Sordaak was waiting for came soon enough when the rogue’s right hand moved to straighten his tunic under his cloak.

There! See! Sordaak hissed.

It mattered not whether the rogue was trying to cheat. The farmer surged to his feet, sending his chair skittering backward, where it crashed into Sordaak’s right shin.

Cheat! the farmer shouted. Thief! he spat as his hand dove toward the knife at his belt.

I saw it, too! said one of the others who had been losing just as badly, his hand also flashing for his blade. A third followed suit, while the remaining farmer who had been losing the worst of all reached for the pile of coins in the center of the table.

The thief’s hand appeared out from his tunic in a flash with a long, thin dagger. In a blur, he pinned the greedy farmer’s hand to the table, the blade passing cleanly through the back of his hand and deep into the wood. The farmer screamed as two more daggers appeared as if by magic, one in each of the rogue’s hands. He bent into a crouch to deal with the remaining farmers. Both men’s eyes bulged out of their sockets as they stared at the hand pinned to the table.

Sordaak neither heard nor saw any of it. A red haze blurred his vision of everything but the insolent farmer who had struck him with the chair. As the mage kicked the offending piece of furniture aside, he spat several arcane words, jumped a step in the direction of the unwary farmer and backhanded him from behind atop his ear.

A loud crack was heard at the point of impact, and the man’s head snapped over, his neck clearly broken. The farmer’s body stiffened and he fell over with a crash, the side of his head around his ear charred and smoking.

The farmer on Sordaak’s right shouted, Accomplice! He swung his short-sword in a vicious arc that would have decapitated the spell-caster—or at the very least made breathing a bit more difficult—had the mage not seen it coming and thrown himself to the floor, his hand reaching for a dagger at his belt.

Unaccustomed to the sword, the farmer recovered slowly. He kicked a chair out of the way just as Sordaak came off of the floor in a lunge. The farmer struggled to get the sword back around in a futile attempt to block Sordaak’s flashing blade. Sick realization clouded the man’s eyes as the dagger sank to the hilt in his throat.

Sordaak quickly withdrew his blade as the man dropped his weapon and began clawing at the small hole in his neck. He sagged to his knees and slowly slumped forward. He ended up face down on the hard-packed floor, where he lay still.

With no small effort, Sordaak forced his rage down, bent and wiped his blade clean on the dead man’s tunic and glanced around, looking for possible threats. The thief had one farmer under control, and the only other was scrambling through the door into the night, his pockets jingling with coin.

Sordaak made his decision. He leapt after the fleeing figure with the words to yet another spell forming in his mind. He brushed aside the curtain that led out to the now darkened boardwalk and stepped into the gloom beyond. As his eyes adjusted, he spotted his quarry scurrying down the center of the street, oblivious to the fact he was being followed.

The words sprang to the sorcerer’s lips, and he pointed his forefinger at the man, who stopped abruptly as if waiting for someone to catch up.

Sordaak hustled up to the farmer and emptied the man’s pockets into a small bag that he pulled from under his cloak. The mage then stepped back and swung the heavy bag, clouting the man behind his ear with a thud that caused the coins inside to clank together in a most satisfactory fashion.

The farmer sank to the ground with a sigh just as the rogue came running up, stuffing coins into various folds in his tunic—obviously taken from the unfortunates he’d left behind in the tavern. They would not need them anymore, he reasoned.

Thanks for the help, the thief said quickly, looking over his shoulder toward the still covered tavern door.

Unwilling to let his part in starting the fracas be known just yet, Sordaak said, An innocent bystander who saw an opportunity to make some coin, that’s all.

The thief squinted as he looked a little closer at the robed figure next to him. Thanks all the same. They don’t take kindly to those of The Profession around these parts—spell-casters, either, for that matter. After another quick glance in the direction from which they had come, he said, I think we had better make ourselves scarce.

Sordaak turned to also look in the direction of the tavern, which was decidedly more active now. Several loud voices could be heard from within, although no one had stepped through the door. Any thought as to which direction? the caster asked after a moment’s consideration.

The thief paused a moment to ponder the question. The local guild will put us up until things have cooled off a bit, he said. Of course they will want a cut…

No, thanks, the mage answered. If it’s just the same to you, I would rather not get myself associated with your associates, if you know what I mean. He glanced at the thief. No offense intended, of course.

None taken, at least not at this point, the rogue said with a grin.

Well, Sordaak said after another glance toward the inn, let’s get out of town. Right now might be a good time. The curtain to the inn moved, but still no one appeared. I have a friend north of town—

With a temper like yours, the thief interrupted, you still manage to make friends? After a sharp glance from the caster he went on quickly. North it is!

Just then the curtain separating the tavern from the boardwalk was pushed aside, spilling light from the doorway into the dusty road. "Now does look like a very good time to get started," the rogue said. He darted to their left between two buildings, with Sordaak close on his heels.

There they go! shouted a man from the doorway. After them! The speaker ran toward the man left lying in the street, several others not far behind.

A few minutes and many twists and turns later found the pair in an alleyway behind the Trails End Inn, the site of their escapades.

I’ve got a horse and a couple of pack animals in the stable here, the thief gasped between breaths, pointing to a large building looming out of the darkness. By the way, he wheezed, my name is Savinhand. Most just call me Savin, or Thumbs. What do I call you?

Sordaak. Just call me Sordaak, the sorcerer puffed as he peered into the darkness, looking for pursuers.

Don’t worry about them, the rogue said, I’m pretty sure we lost ’em.

I’m not so sure, Sordaak said as he approached the partially open stable door. Thumbs? How did you get a nickname like that?

Just a moniker someone once saddled me with that stuck, he said, flashing a smile of white, even teeth. Actually, as you may have noticed I am pretty good with my hands. Turning toward the stable door, he lowered his voice. Do you suppose word has made it this far? I would hate to wander into a welcoming committee.

Agreed. Sordaak dropped his voice to a whisper as well. However, I hear nothing from within. He didn’t really sound all that convinced as he started around the corner.

Just the same, Savin said, stopping the mage by putting a hand on his shoulder, better let me go first. He noted a dim light emanating from behind the stalls that probably spelled trouble. The rogue stepped into the doorway first. I know how to handle these types of situations, he said without looking back. Indeed, he seemed to disappear into the darkness without a sound, leaving Sordaak staring intently after him, mumbling to himself and trying to figure out where his new companion had gone so quickly.

Shortly, a muffled thud came from within. A moment or so after that a whisper at Sordaak’s elbow nearly caused him to jump out of his skin. "Don’t do that!" hissed the spell-caster, his heart in his throat.

Sorry, said Savinhand, stifling a chuckle. Come on. It’s clear now. Once again he disappeared into the open doorway, Sordaak a short distance behind.

After a few steps they approached the light and came upon a man slumped over a small table strewn with a deck of filthy, dog-eared cards.

I thought you said these animals were yours, said Sordaak, a bit of not-too-veiled sarcasm creeping into his voice.

They are, Thumbs said in a tone that managed to sound both hurt and amused. He’d had some visitors not long before we got here. He waved a casual hand in the direction of footprints in the dirt floor of the stable. So I figured a little additional caution wouldn’t hurt.

Not you, anyway, muttered the spell-caster, shaking his head.

Huh? said the rogue with a confused look on his face. But I thought…

Never mind, said the caster. Let’s get on with it before he comes to or his friend returns.

Deciding to let it go, the thief led the way into the gloomy darkness, heading in the direction of the stalls.

Still muttering, Sordaak yanked a second lantern, lit it from the first and followed. He watched closely where he stepped, as it was obvious that cleanliness was not an amenity this hostelry offered.

The mage stood and looked on silently while Thumbs threw a saddle on his horse and began tightening the straps. I only have the one horse, Savin said, smiling. But I do have two pack mules, either of which you are welcome to…

Oh no, said the caster, I’m not riding any raw-boned jackass! I’ll just have a look around. Sordaak walked away and was soon out of the thief’s line of sight as the rogue continued readying his mount.

"You mean steal one? asked Savinhand, a hint of mockery in his voice. Tsk-tsk."

Shut it! snapped Sordaak. Anyway, he said over his shoulder as he stepped up to an occupied stall, you have no room to talk—robbing those poor dirt farmers of their hard-earned income! The mage eyed a huge black horse two stalls over from where his companion was working. I think this one will do, he muttered, more to himself than anyone. He looked around for a saddle.

Yeah, I noticed how nice you were to those ‘poor dirt farmers,’ Thumbs said. Easing two of them from their obviously miserable lives and still another from his heavy burden of coin! He snickered. A real gentlemen, you are.

Enough! Sordaak said, struggling to get the saddle onto the big black, cursing under his breath. He was unaccustomed to being gotten the better of in a battle of wits. I must be out of practice, he reasoned. The horse turned to watch and rolled his eyes in apparent amusement.

Not you, too! muttered the flustered spell-caster.

What?

Nothing! I wasn’t talking to you!

Just as the mage tightened the last strap, he heard footsteps retreating into the night. He jumped out of the stall but was too late. The stable hand was gone.

The thief was already leading his horse and pack animals out of their respective stalls. I thought you said you took care of him? accused Sordaak as he raced back into the stall and snatched up the reins of his mount.

Savinhand started to open his mouth in protest, but Sordaak cut him off. Never mind! he said, pleased at regaining the upper hand. Both could hear voices rapidly approaching. I think we’re going to have company, the mage hissed as he vaulted nimbly up onto the huge horse’s back.

The big black, startled by the sudden movement, bolted for the door with Sordaak struggling mightily to hang on.

Hey! the rogue called after the rapidly disappearing horse. Wait for me! He jumped onto his horse’s back and kicking the animal hard in the ribs. The animal took off after the caster’s mount, the pack mules trailing on their tethers. On his way past, he slapped at the oil lamp with his reins, sending it flying across the aisle and crashing into the wall, spilling oil and flames over the aging wood.

That should keep them busy, Savin said as he ducked under the door frame.

A man with a knife and strong misconceptions of his ability to stop the charging mount rounded the corner. The shoulder of Savinhand’s horse caught him squarely in the chest, and the air left his lungs in a whoosh as the would-be assailant was knocked sprawling. There were others behind the unfortunate townsman, but they scattered before the charging horse. One tried to reach up to grab the thief’s tunic as he swept by, but a sharp whip of the reins across his face drew a yelp and caused him to fall back, his hand going to his bleeding cheek. Savinhand raced off in the direction the sorcerer had gone.

There was much cursing and even more shouts behind the fleeing pair. Someone had finally noticed the flames and was yelling for help.

Savinhand smiled, pleased with himself at the distraction. He bent lower over his mount’s neck. A glance behind showed the mules were keeping up nicely. A good mule could really run when it was of a mind to, as these certainly were.

He spotted the spell-caster just ahead, still having trouble with the big horse. Sordaak had one hand tightly gripping the reins and the other knotted in the beast’s mane, both holding on for dear life as he bounced all over the horse’s back. Thumbs thought he heard curses intermingled with a painful yelp now and again, but he couldn’t be sure because of the pounding hooves of his own animals.

Finally Sordaak’s horse slowed, indicating the mage was gaining control. He got situated in the saddle and slowed the beast to a gallop as he waited for the rogue to catch up.

Having problems with your mount? Thumbs asked as he pulled even with the caster, a smirk crossing his lips.

Sordaak turned and glared at the rogue for a moment and then his eyes swiveled back to the road ahead.

I thought you said your friend was north of town? Savin said, still grinning.

Sordaak gave the rogue a confused look and then glanced around to get his bearings. It was dark, but the road had many markings. Damn! he spat. He raised his hand as if to cuff the horse on the ear but thought better of it. We’ll have to circle the village. Probably just as well. No sense in giving them an idea as to which direction we went. I hope they’re not too persistent.

Oh, said the thief, I don’t believe we’ll have to worry about them for a while. He turned and looked back over his shoulder toward the town.

Sordaak looked at the thief to see if he could figure out what he was talking about. Then, following the rogue’s line of sight, he turned in the saddle and looked back as well. By now the flames lit up the horizon behind them.

What— he began. Oh, never mind. He shook his head. I probably don’t want to know anyway! He turned his horse off the trail.

Thumbs turned his animals and followed, the grin still on his face.

Chapter Two

Recompense

SORDAAK ROSE RELUCTANTLY from the depths of a blissful slumber. It had been an escape from the pain that now flooded into his wine-addled head.

The night before must have been a good one. The last thing he remembered was performing various magiks for the farmer and his wife, of whom he and Savinhand were guests. But somewhere along there things just faded out. The copious amounts of wine probably had something to do with it.

Slowly, painfully, he became aware of the reason for the rude intrusion into his sleep. A hand was shaking him none-to-gently by the shoulder. A voice penetrated the pounding of drums that engulfed his mind.

Sordaak! the voice said through the haze. It sounded urgent. Sordaak! Wake up! Even more violent shaking accompanied the persistent words. There’s someone here that wants to talk to you!

Sordaak tried to form the words of a curse, but his mouth seemed to be lined with cotton and his tongue a stick.

Savinhand, sensing success at last, stepped back in the event his friend’s nasty temper came into play.

The mage swallowed a few times, almost gagging. Finally he managed to croak out, Wha-? Speaking made his head throb even more. What? his voice cracked. He was determined to be rid of this fool.

There’s someone out front who wants to see you, Savin repeated, stepping back even farther. I think it’s the owner of that big black you ‘borrowed’ last night.

What? Sordaak began again. Slowly his mind, which seemed to be swimming in molasses, ground into motion. Sudden realization popped his eyes open. They had been tightly shut because any light only added to the pain, not that opening them helped much.

I said, repeated the rogue, who glanced nervously around, looking for any possible avenue of escape should that become necessary, someone out front wants to talk to you. I think—

Shut up! hissed the caster. Where he was and how he had arrived there came back to him in a rush. Sordaak sat up quickly—too quickly. A blinding flash pierced his skull, forcing him to sink back down to his cloak which was doubling as a pillow.

Damn, the sorcerer whispered softly. Son-of-a-bitch! A little louder this time. Let me think, he finally managed to get out as he sat back up, more slowly this time. Stall him. I’ve got to find a place to hide, he said as he swung his legs around and put his feet on the cool, rough-hewn floor.

The thief cocked his head sideways as if trying to listen to something just out of earshot.

Catching the motion out of the corner of his eye, Sordaak said, What?

Shhhh, Savinhand hissed while holding up his hand.

Sordaak started to protest further, but the rogue jumped aside. There was a splintering crash as the door swung inward, slamming into the wall.

The thunderous noise set the tiny men with the rather large hammers back to pounding away with a renewed sense of purpose inside Sordaak’s skull.

You son of a— the caster began, his temper flaring.

So, you are the swine that stole my mount, a voice boomed into room, which now seemed much smaller. The words reverberated off the walls most unpleasantly.

Sordaak’s vision slowly began to clear. What he saw standing in the doorway did not please him.

The man—the caster was pretty sure it was a man—filled the door frame. He was taller than any human Sordaak had ever seen. His shoulders were so wide they seemed to brush against both door jambs.

Ugh-oh, Sordaak groaned.

That is right, little man, thundered the voice as a meaty fist attached to a ham-like forearm reached for the caster. You are in trouble. A whole lot of trouble!

Sordaak quickly mumbled a few arcane words and made the required gesture in the direction of this threat.

The big man seemed to hesitate, but then he smiled as he grasped a handful of tunic and easily picked Sordaak up off the cot where he’d been sleeping. A spell-caster, huh? So you are the one that killed all those farmers. I know some townsfolk back in the village that would like to get their hands on you. His smile broadened. Well, they can have what is left of you when I am finished! Still smiling, he added, "Assuming there is anything left!"

Sordaak hung limply in the man’s grasp, his feet dangling two feet off the floor. He tried to straighten. That’s right, Sordaak said, summoning his best nasty disposition, I’m a powerful wizard!

The mage had completed his apprenticeship only a couple of years earlier, but this big oaf didn’t know that. Besides, unless he figured a way to bluff his way out of this one, he might not get the chance to become a powerful wizard. You’d better—

"You had better shut up! the man boomed. I have not yet decided just what to do with you. He appeared to ponder this for a bit before continuing. However, I am certain I can able to come up with something suitable." Now the smile was most definitely sinister in nature.

Savinhand, who had been hiding in the shadows, leapt at the back of the huge man, a knife in his hand. The big man sidestepped and ducked under the onrushing thief’s blade. He then smacked the rogue with the back of his free hand, sending Savin smashing into the wall, where he hit his head with a thud. The thief’s eyes glazed over and he slid slowly to the floor.

I figured he was in on it, said the big man in a voice that was way too loud, affixing his glare on the thief supine on the floor. He turned his attention back to Sordaak, whose feet still dangled in mid-air. Now to take care of you, he said as he drew back his fist.

Wait! stammered the caster. Maybe we can be of use to one other.

The big man raised an eyebrow. Of what possible use can you be to me? he asked.

I’ve been working that village for over a week trying to gather a suitable group to make a raid on Dragma’s Keep, the caster said, his eyes never leaving the fist. He sensed a possible opening.

Dragma’s Keep? The man’s voice remained dubious.

Put me down and I will tell you more, insisted Sordaak.

That keep has been lost for more than a thousand years, spat the big man, doubt in his voice. I think I will hold you up here just a bit longer. However, he lowered his fist ever so slightly. You are going to have to do better than that.

It’s not lost anymore! announced the caster. I have been researching that keep for over a year, and now I’m fairly certain I’ve located it. He paused. Now, put me down if you want to hear the rest.

The big man hesitated. All right, he said grudgingly. But just you try to get away and I will break that scrawny little neck of yours.

He set Sordaak on his feet and stepped back warily, keeping his big body between the caster and the door. The significance of which did not escape the sorcerer.

Sordaak made a show of straightening his tunic while attempting to gather his dignity, and his thoughts. Don’t you worry! he said looking up into the darkness hiding the big man’s face, "I have plans for this neck—and for you! His anger was returning in the place of the fear, but he forced that down and worked to remain calm. This brute could really be of some use if Sordaak could win him over. About two days’ ride to the east, there is an old outcropping of buildings, he continued after giving some thought as to just how much he needed to reveal to this man, who despite his size was certainly human. I found a reference that indicates there is a hidden entrance to Dragma’s Keep there.